


Open Beta

by hellhoundsprey



Series: fascinus!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aromantic Dean, Biting, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Kink, Domestic Fluff, Figging, Improvised Sex Toys, Knitting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Stapling, Stoner Castiel, Team Everyone Switches, Threesome - M/M/M, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Dean says he wouldn’t mind if Sam looked around elsewhere and doesn’t get tired of repeating it. He is not insensitive by any means. Sam figures he just doesn’t understand – Dean Smith’s vocabulary is college-colorful but lacks in the weirdest places. Unfortunately, Sam is not too good with explanations.





	

The first time Dean fucks him bareback is the first time Sam cries at work, too.

That Dean would go that far.

That he would. That he _is_.

So Sam cries, because this is so, so, so big for them, and upon request stutters somewhere halfway to his hands-free orgasm of the day, that it’s because Dean’s dick fucks him so, so, so good. It brings him a mean laugh and a harsher ride. Sam’s teeth are clattering, hands fanned out over fake marble tiles.

“Fuck, _Sam_.”

Dean always gets rougher right before he comes. Feral, even, depending on how the day went so far, how much tension he needs to rid himself of. Hisses as if it’s him who hurts when he digs his manicured nails into Sam’s ass, and Sam swears he can feel him swelling, ready to explode.

“Don’t pull out-“ So so hard to keep his voice both steady and low enough. “-fill me up, fill me the fuck _up_!”

Dean does. Oh, he does.

Sam comes with a load up his ass and a keening, soft sound Dean will make fun of later.

Dean squints at the glitter in Sam’s eyes, the snot up Sam’s nose, and tucks his eighty dollar tie back in place. Scrunches his nose when Sam bends to pull his pants up.

Sam shrugs. Zipper, button, bead of sweat down his neck passing his polo shirt’s neat collar.

“What? ’S not like I brought a plug. You?”

Motherly concerned and filthy good-for-nothing Mr. Smith licks his lips; half nervous, half so very here for all of Sam’s twisted self. “You’re just gonna...?”

Sam grins at that. Dirty, kinda exhausted, kinda sore. (Kinda in fucking real big trouble, head-over-heels. Has the goal to fuck Dean dry one day. Currently works his way up. He’s ambitious.) “Don’t worry about it.” He clenches his ass at nothing and that’s gonna be a real bitch pretty soon (and only makes it so much better). Dean better appreciates the effort.

“You’re incurable,” whispers Sam’s boss while he pinches Sam’s ass (as if Sam was his little secretary (a coffee and a fuck and a dirty little secret)).

Early after the very first time they had exchanged glances back in the otherwise deserted elevator, Sam discovered the two of them have their own orbit. Feels himself getting drawn into it, again, still. One thumb in the waistband of Dean’s spotless designer pants (That hint of a crease? All Sam’s.) and a gentle tug is all it takes to bring Dean close enough to kiss – so small when Sam insists on towering – but always broad, always ready to talk back. Doesn’t, though, when Sam is all smooth, all little boy and sex kitten, as much of a twink as his two hundred pounds of a body will let him be.

“You could come check on me. Later.” Batting of lashes. “Check how much of you I managed to keep in. Fuck it out. Make it double.”

“Fuck.”

“My place? Eight?”

“Uh, nine; at the earliest. If I’m lucky. Got a business dinner downtown.”

Sam is in love with the freckle on the inside of that lower lip. With the bite of nails through his cheap uniform trousers.

“I’ll text you.” (That sometimes sounds like longing when Sam listens hard enough.)

“Okay.”

Mr. Smith keeps a nice eau de toilette only Mr. Wesson gets to use. It’s not a private bathroom for nothing, after all. Sam slips out first after he splashed his face in the sink, rubbed a paper towel under his pits, smooched a grunting Dean on his cheek.

Elevator. Three stories down. Down the hallway; to the cubicles. He has had worse. Sam hates his job, yeah, but it pays the bills. The insurance cover is actually pretty sweet. A stable job. Mom is proud, she says.

“You reek of sex.”

“Shut up, Ian.”

They are both grinning.

Three more hours of sitting in Dean’s come, smiling while he handles phone call after phone call because the clients can _hear_ the smile, honestly. Lunch with Ian, scrolling through his phone. He should make plans for after work. Sam can only handle so many evenings of being cancelled on, and Dean went through all of them in record time.

Sam’s thumb hovers over Meg’s number eventually, and she says yeah, sure, she’s free until her shift starts at eleven. They agree on beer and fast food within four texts.

Dean says he wouldn’t mind if Sam looked around elsewhere and doesn’t get tired of repeating it. He is not insensitive by any means. Sam figures he just doesn’t _understand_ – Dean Smith’s vocabulary is college-colorful but lacks in the weirdest places. Unfortunately, Sam is not too good with explanations.

~

She makes a face ready to snarl when he places his phone on top of the table, so he quickly ducks his head and smiles his biggest, “Sorry,” before he’s even sat his ass down.

“Gimme that so I can tell him his little boy toy is being rude to a lady and needs his ass whipped.”

“Oh?” Sam grins wider and feints shoving the phone her way, laughs and shields his face with his arm when she jumps up to punch him from across the table.

“They used to castrate freaks like you.”

“And burned you girls side by side with your brooms.”

“Wesson, how about you shut your goddamn trap and do something useful for once, like, buying me a fucking drink.”

“You think they’ll put a little umbrella in your beer if I ask?”

“I will kill you and everyone you’ve ever loved.”

Sam squints at the ceiling in pretend contemplation. Decides, “Fair enough.”

She grins for that, flashing pearly whites, and shrugs out of her leather jacket. Meg brushes some blonde strands out of her eyes. Her tank top is cut low and her bra a lacy black. Heavy eye make-up. She’s in for the big tips tonight.

In another time, another place, Sam thinks they would have made a great couple. If Meg was into ‘stuck-up little office bitches’. If Sam was more into leather.

Time stretches despite the cheerful company, and Sam tries not to let it show. Glances at his phone every now and then, but it never flashes nor vibrates.

It’s half past ten and Dean hasn’t reported back yet.

Sam gives up half an hour later and ignores Meg’s half smug half pitiful look as he shoves his phone into his pocket.

“He’s a bitch,” she says. “Forget about him.”

“He’s busy, that’s all.” He downs his beer, frowns at it being less than expected, not enough. Frowns up at Meg. “Shots?”

“Nah, man, gotta save _some_ sobriety for work. Actually, I should head out in a minute.”

Sam sighs. “Okay.”

“No cock is worth that much frowning, Sammy. Just sayin’.”

“Probably not,” he smiles.

Unfortunately though, that’s not how these things work.

~

Halfway through a pack of cigs and a hand clutching a beer, Sam strolls through the streets. It’s late, he’s remotely drunk, has a plug in his ass that starts to get uncomfortable (put it in like a boy scout, like an overeager hopeful-horny teen, for Christ’s sake), and tomorrow is another workday and Sam isn’t even fucking tired. Melancholic, yeah. Pathetic, yeah. But not tired. Could sigh and smoke and drink all night. Should maybe do that. Visit Meg. Hit someone up. Someone available.

Sam has been exclusive with Dean for the past three months. Had been exclusive with his right hand for another two, prior to getting into Dean’s pants, when everything was heartbeat and stolen glances and _how the fuck do you flirt with your boss without getting fired or sued or both_. Feels stupid, now. Always feels stupid when Dean rejects him, reminds him that yeah, they fuck, but this is not a relationship, kid; I don’t fucking send you flowers or kiss your forehead or tell you ‘I miss you’.

They even had included Cas. Have seen him a couple of times by now. It’s good. Real good. Works out just fine, nobody’s being left out. And yeah, fuck, the sex _is_ great, sure. Sam should be grateful and happy to have found not one but two awesome hot guys to get it on with. Is, most of the time.

But he has times like these, too. When he’d just need company. Not even sex. Not that he would say no to sex, no, but...

Coming home to someone. Being welcome. Being asked to stay the night.

To be needed.

Sam knows he is an asshole. Stupid and overeager; cruel if he wants to. Stares at a couple on the other side of the street who is laughing, holding hands. Sam wants to shout at them to fucking keep it in their pants, this is a public space, for fuck’s sake, but he retrieves his phone instead, unlocks the screen. He scrolls for a while just to stay busy.

Could re-read old conversations with Dean. Could head home and jerk off to them, easily. Would pass out quickly and then dream of Dean buying him the same costume his secretary paraded through Sandover last week, of Dean bending him over his table, rucking his skirt up, breed him up like that.

Could.

His thumb hovers over the contact ‘Cas’.

You: hey, still up?

Sam regrets hitting ‘send’ as soon as he slips his phone back into his pocket. It’s not fair. Cas shouldn’t be a backup. Shouldn’t be a band aid.

He lights himself another cigarette and walks. Again, he waits, but really hopes Cas won’t answer.

The vibration in his pocket sends Sam’s palms a little more sweaty. He dares a glance.

There is a photo of a... monkey. Dozing in a pile of what looks like blankets.

Cas: yeah. @work. you?

Sam frowns at the picture until his forehead hurts and he remembers a very vague memory from a few nights ago. Yeah. Right. Cas works at the city zoo.

You: monkey party?

Cas: technically they’re apes  
Cas: but yes  
Cas: they sure know how to make the best out of their situation

Cas attached a blurry selfie that shows him and who must be a colleague. Both are smoking. Cas seems expressionless; relaxed.

You: I had no idea they had ppl on duty at night

Cas: well  
Cas: they don’t, actually  
Cas: it’s just so nice to watch these guys  
Cas: majestic even in their sleep

Sam laughs but keeps himself from sending an emoji.

Cas: full moons leave me restless

Sam taps out ‘me too’.

Cas: care for a lullaby? uriel has a beautiful singing voice

Cas added the gently smiling emoji to that. Sam can picture him right now, just like that. The always-dazed flow of his limbs and expressions, the smoky scratch of his voice.

Sam: thanks, I’m good

Thumbs-up emoji.

Sam is itching. Stands in the middle of the sidewalk, phone in both hands, knees a little weak from the drinking. The plug is still where he left it and he feels it shifting with every move.

Both thumbs hover. Would be so easy. Just ask. Just fucking ask, Wesson, he won’t interrogate you. He’s laid-back and easy, just like Dean, like you, and he wouldn’t be mad. Even if you told him he’s a mere Plan B. Probably. Perhaps. You’re not an asshole for not wanting to spend the night by yourself.

Cas: where are you rn?

Sam hesitates. Thinks of Cas’ pretty apartment. Of the plants and animals, the scents of food and pot and incense, all mingling together into utter coziness. How it would be to bask in all that, to let himself fall into that, drown and be pampered and, well, forget.

Sam hesitates.

You: heading home

He finishes his smoke, empties his beer, puts the bottle down next to a building. Head down, hands into pockets, he ignores the two buzzes of his phone – Sam walks. Nothing else. Doesn’t think, doesn’t watch, just _is_ , and that’s calming. Nowhere to be but here. Nothing to do but this.

Tomorrow is a new day.

~

00:13 – Jerk  
sorry got home just now. tty tmorrow?

00:14 – Cas  
get some rest beautiful (smooch emoji)

~

Petting this cat feels even weirder once Sam’s fingers go a little number. He takes another hit, blows the smoke away from the purring thing. So fucking light on his naked chest, fuck. He could crush it so easily if he wanted, and it has no idea.

Cas emerges from the kitchen, wipes his dough and flour stained hands on the shirt he probably put on for the sake of nothing but that exact action since he pulls it over his head and off once he’s done. Naked, always naked, and fucking beautiful and tanned bone-deep, fit and smelling like cinnamon spice. His pretty pierced cock is already on half-mast but Cas has the sacred patience of watering some of his plants first, leaves Sam on the heap of blankets and pillows Dean would never call a ‘couch’. Space for Sam to calm down, to sink in.

“This really okay?”

“Of course,” hums Cas.

Sam suckles on the blunt some more, watches and waits with devotion. Mr. Bootie yawns, stretches his arms (what, wait, _forelegs_ ) and squints at Sam when he taps his finger over his tiny cat-knuckles. A bluedarkblack hint of a snake tattoo slithers up his skin, peeks out under the fluffy neck of his sweater. Bunny-ears and all. It’s fucking adorable. Sam scratches at Mr. Bootie’s chin and doesn’t allow animal-abuse-heartbreak to take him over; not now.

Cas’ movements are all grace, all pot-heavy. He drapes next to and half over Sam like his cat did, uses one arm to elbow himself up, fans one warm hand over Sam’s cheek, into his hair. Cas kisses like he wants to put you to bed, and it’s always your choice where you want the innuendo to go.

Eyes closed; chaste kisses with a puckered mouth. It’s growing up to a physical law to have a boner in Cas’ apartment, but that’s not what Sam needs; not now. Cas’ thumb makes love to his cheek, and maybe that’s what makes Sam put his hand on Cas’ back – not so slide down, not to feel, just to hold on.

“It’s a fucking hard week.”

Cas doesn’t mock him, doesn’t even mention it, simply rubs the wetness from the corner of Sam’s eye and kisses him better.

The cat purrs louder once Cas tucks Sam closer.

“It’s okay, Sam.”

~

“Yeah, he’s in the shower right now.”

Bright blue eyes. Sam’s phone in Cas’ hand, pressed to Cas’ ear.

Wicked grin. “Wanna leave a message for him?”

Sam doesn’t have to ask who’s on the other side of the line. Eyes still on Cas, he rubs the towel through his hair some more while he already starts to stalk over to the bed where Cas is sprawling. Patchouli incense burns on the nightstand and Cas’ Road Runner is circled in bite marks. One towel-rub over his dick before his palm takes over.

All fours, back arched like there’s a camera behind him, crawling; dimples.

“’S that Mr. Smith? Give him a kiss from me.”

Cas reaches out like an impatient child, tugs Sam by his hair, then runs his hand down his back the closer he gets.

“You get a kiss,” Cas purrs into the phone.

_“He there?”_

“Uh-huh.” Cas’ growl rumbles in his throat aka right underneath Sam’s teeth. “Definitely. And you?”

_“Shit, uh, actually I still gotta...”_

“More for me then.”

They kiss extra-filthy, extra-wet. Extra fuck you.

Breathless laugh, now shared between Cas’ and Sam’s ears. _“Fuckers. Shit.”_

“Even if you showed up, I’m afraid Cas got all of the good stuff. Nothing left for you.”

“Which won’t stop me, naturally.” Cas flashes pearly whites, rearranges his grip in Sam’s hair. Sam’s toes fucking _curl_. “He pretty when he squirms all dried up, Dean?”

_“Fuck yeah.”_

Sam fattens to perfection wedged between palm and stomach. Cas licks into his pliant mouth as if he was searching for a hint of Dean in there (wouldn’t be a surprise if he found some; Sam’s got a lifetime supply).

_“Prettiest noises you’ve ever heard. Hard work, that kid, but worth it. Isn’t it, Sammy?”_

Sam chokes, “Yes,” furrows his brows even before Cas snaps his head back by his hair. He can imagine it so well – Dean, perched on his Vitra too-many-dollars armchair, hand maybe pressing down hard against the twitch between his legs or pulling it out, stroking himself slow or maybe _hard_ and slow, like he wants it to hurt, like he needs to _feel_.

God, Sam needs this man so bad it’s edging on tragic.

“Mh, I’ll make him work for it.” Cas muses some more while playing with Sam’s hair, pulling at his ear until Sam hisses and then some; mutters something about tying Sam down and leaving him at the mercy of something which, quote un-quote, _works amazingly well as a fucking machine considering he couldn’t even feel his hands when he taped it together the other night_ , and Sam fucking whimpers and doesn’t miss Dean that much anymore and _wants_.

Cas is a miracle. An angel. Sent from up above to soothe Sam’s soul, fucking pamper him to death.

“The slut fucking _likes_ it,” grins Cas.

 _“Send me pictures?”_ Weak, wrecked; Dean sounds lovely when desperate.

“And what do I get in exchange, pretty boy?”

The way Smith vows, _“Anything,”_ makes Sam’s eyes and dick equally wet.

“Then come over.” Hungry-lidded eyes, a canine sinking into his own lip (makes Sam fucking _jealous_ ). “Could use some help here. I’m afraid one cock up his ass won’t do it anymore.”

_“Dude, I can’t exactly...”_

“No pictures then. Too bad.”

_“Wai-”_

Sam kind of wants to smash his fist into Cas’ face when he hangs up, gapes all un-sexy and devastated until Cas bucks up and shoves him over, pins and bites. Gasping into the pillow, all sense reduced to the tweak on his skin where Cas pinches his shoulder so hard he’s afraid he’ll pull a muscle, he can still hear the clatter of his phone being thrown off the bed (out of the danger zone).

“Let’s give him an hour.”

Cas sounds like thunder and rain, like a fucking god. Sam prays that those fingers will leave imprints on his neck as they press tight, make him choke for more.

“Don’t worry. Meantime’s not gonna get boring.”

He’s breathless and fucking falling in love.

~

Of course Dean doesn’t show up. What is remarkable though is that Sam is real damn surprised to find a dozen texts and missed calls from him when he fumbles for his phone hours later. He actually fucking forgot Dean was even supposed to be here.

There was a disturbed two and a half hours of sleep, and now he’s sour-mouthed and sore, irritated, without Cas. Cranes his neck to see beyond the door frame, sneak a peek of the living room, but Cas is nowhere in sight. Sam frowns, grabs at his own throat when he has to cough where he originally wanted to call out. His phone welcomes him to eleven AM, Thursday.

Well. Shit.

A flower-shaped post-it note on a tinfoil-wrapped plate in the kitchen wishes him a good morning and ‘help yourself. Leave whenever you want, or don’t. I’ll be back at 7. PS: Didn’t remove the staples since I didn’t wanna wake you, but please-’ Sam turns the paper. ‘-remove them asap. Alcohol wipes and tweezers are in the bathroom. Love you. Bye.’

Signed with ‘Castiel’. For a second, Sam mistakes the dot for a heart.

He has a very urgent need to sit down but, considering the staples, remains standing. Stares at the note. Almost gets a heart attack when Mr. Bootie flirts around his shins, jumps and curses and nearly knocks a few pans over. The cat ducks, ears tucked back, obviously offended like the mayhem is _Sam’s_ fault, and Sam hisses, “What!” because fuck, _fuck you_.

Since the cat is as naked as him and smaller bodies cool out way sooner than big ones, Sam’s hungover brain decides the most important task for now is to find where Cas stores the cat sweaters. He ends up finding them stashed together with all of Cas’ knitting supplies under the bed after some really... _really_ weird findings he will maybe or maybe not confront Cas about later (how can the guy still calmly use open fire in his apartment, HOW).

Mr. Bootie immediately hops into the box and Sam croaks a parental, “Hey,” but, of course, is ignored completely.

The slim body is peeled out of its soft nest (so so fucking soft oh god Sam wants to crawl in there too). Swastikas and bleeding knives and poetic highlights such as ‘PUSSY FUCK’ are quickly forgotten under Christmas-sweater-green. Sam stares at reindeers and stars and cranberries.

‘Love you,’ the note had said.

Mr. Bootie chases the pompom of the knitted head that had the same now forever-important flower type of a post-it pinned to it, S-A-M like a quick thought, like Cas was maybe stoned out of his mind when he wrote it. Sam intends to put it back after trying it on, but it’s so warm, so perfect, and Sam kind of sobs into his delicious veggie-sausage breakfast but it’s all yesterday’s pot’s fault, honestly.

‘Love you.’

Fully aware that he’s curled in on the sofa hugging both the cat and the iguana to his chest, Sam can’t really place the noises from the TV or the rustling in the kitchen; blinks up at Cas and imagines a halo for a second.

Cas smells like winter and hay and cigarette smoke, like Indian curry for dinner.

“I brought sprouted lentils and your favorite candy,” whispers Cas, like a secret, and rubs at Sam’s stubbly cheek.

Sam flushes red-hot-guilty shortly before he hears Dean’s honest, “Fuck me, that’s an ugly hat, man.”

“S-sorry, I, I didn’t mean to go through your-“

“It’s okay.” Sam leans into that hand like he wants to fit into Mr. Booties sweaters, too. “I’ll make another for Christmas then. Y’know. Busy fingers.”

“Very busy indeed.” Dean’s growl is so close so immediately; worked-out arms curling around Cas from behind, mouth latching on to his neck; but eyes on Sam as soon as he opens them, squints, groans.

There’s a whimper at the back of Sam’s throat somewhere, but he can’t work up the motivation to find it.

“Lying around bare-assed like that, you think you won’t have to deal with the consequences?”

Sam feels his teeth showing when he smiles. “Daddy,” he breathe-purrs.

“Oh fuck you, you spoiled little piece of shit; spread those fucking cheeks for me or God help me I’ll spank your ass into next week.”

Sam’s hands move so fast he forgets about the pinches the staples left behind, forgets about the sore-swell of his insides and the ache under his skin Cas bit and slapped into it last night, and his breath catches but he spreads as much as he can; would do it on his dying bed as long as it would be Dean who’d ask for it.

“Jesus Christ.”

Blurry rip of a zipper, a slurred-amused laugh from Cas and the pillow surface behind Sam dips Dean-knee-deep.

“Fuck, you little bitch, _fuck_.”

Cas’, “I’ll leave you kids alone and get dinner ready,” mixes with the high-pitched rip of a condom wrapper, the click-spurt-slick of lube – kinda like angels singing, kind of like being boiled alive.

“Wait, I’m- I’m sore as- Fuck, wait, _Dean_ -“

Choke-hold on Sam’s blackblue throat, hiss of, “Shut up or you get gagged,” and Dean’s cockhead already pressing past the painful clutch of his ass, and Sam wants to cry out but he’s too wrecked even for that.

Dean fucks home with something cheesy-porny like ‘there we go’, and thank god Sam wails so happy loud that he can’t hear it, not really.

Sobbing apart on Dean’s dick is something you can’t confess your love to, but Sam tries nevertheless.

Dean pulls out just in time for the call for dinner, ties off the condom and flips up to a stand, undresses. Still out of breath and unsure if he’ll be able to move, the pets still cradled in his arms and absolutely unfazed by the bloody murder all around them (they’ve seen some shit and Sam would feel sad if he had it in him at this point), Sam watches the always-the-same sequence of movements. Oddly calming, oddly therapeutic. Button by button, folding, putting the shirt down, flattening the wrinkles; then the pants. Dean fucking folds his socks. Sam hates how much he loves it.

Dean leaves his boxer briefs on because he’s ‘no caveman, Sam, ew, think of the upholstery’. When he reaches for Sam, frowns in the worry Sam knows Dean feels even though they both have a good feel for how much the other can endure by now, then, well, then Sam knows there’s no better place to be but right here.

“You alright?”

He nods, wipes away a tear, swallows the lump in his throat at the roll of eyes Dean gives, the bad-father sigh he must have picked up back home forever ago.

“Would you stop menstruating, please? Some of us haven’t eaten a warm meal in four days.”

Dean still takes all the time in the world Sam needs to wobble into the kitchen, arm slung across Dean’s back, holding on. Dean doesn’t kiss much unless he feels like chasing the taste of his ass or cock on someone’s teeth, and somehow that’s okay right now.

Cas spoon-feeds Sam and gives Dean shit for moaning over soup like it’s candy-coated dick, and by the time everyone has finished Sam can feel something like jealousy again for Cas receiving the punches Dean delivers to shoulders of ‘mouthy little brats’. They all agree though that Sam is out of commission for the mean parts, at least for tonight, and that sounds so much better once Dean doe-eyes all over his bashful mutter of how he managed to sign in for ‘home office’ this Friday.

Sam is perfectly happy to spend the evening and night glued to his back, getting fed with ginger candy and ass and cock every other while; for your throat, sweetheart, and now be a good boy and swallow. Dean wails for him to stop rubbing the candy around his quickly irritated glans, and everything gets a little violent once Cas holds him down and urges Sam to tongue-fuck one right up Dean’s ass and stuff one smaller, licked-down one up the shy-clenching slit of his dick.

For someone who cries while watching baby animal videos, Cas sure can play devil.

They gag Dean with his stupid-expensive underwear and Cas has to threaten with Kinbaku ropes for Dean to comply bouncing himself between his dick and Sam’s mouth, arms straining behind himself, him doing all the work. This is discussed, safe, and again this shared trust is the best about all of it. Sam suckles only slightly for the candy to remain stuck, and fuck if he doesn’t enjoy seeing Dean in some serious dilemma. The guy, of course, gets off on it most of them all (the crazy ones somehow always wear suits), but it’s really Sam who gets all heart-eyed at every glance down the latex-less length of Cas’ cock appearing and disappearing into Dean’s ginger-raw ass.

He swears he can hear the candy colliding with the piercings, once, twice, before it’s pushed too deep, out of reach for any of them. They make Dean push it out together with what must be every last drop of Cas’ load.

Ginger is now Sam’s new favorite flavor (next to ‘Dean’ and ‘Cas’), and he finishes it all with a satisfied groan that makes even the mess they left of Dean shiver in second-hand embarrassment.

Only fair, maybe, that he gets woken up with his arms and legs tied behind his body, ass weirdly burning until he blinks through enough tears to recognize the bag of candy in Dean’s hand. He shivers, drools around what tastes like Dean’s underwear from last night, and the toy sliding up into his guts is moving way too evenly to be led by someone’s hand.

Turns out having candy fucked up your ass feels like tiny little anal beads, and turns out they’re gone too deep too fast to really savor the latter. But they’re there, and they burn, and it’s fucking amazing. More amazing when Cas adds more lube, _way_ more lube, and Dean grins at Cas and moves to fit in next to the toy, and that’s where Sam _really_ starts squirming.

“Hold – fucking – still.”

Every word gets emphasized by a loud clap on Sam’s way too stretched ass.

There’s a faint growling about a grocery run for real, fresh ginger and something about brewing it to something one could soak an urethral sound in and Sam fucking _loses_ it over the sheer thought, screams into the cotton of his mouth and lets the vibrations of the cock ring choke him dry.

He has real bad diarrhea when he comes to, but fuck, it was so worth it.

“It’s a common fashion to look for labels in everything we do. Easier to handle, makes people more confident. But ultimately, to be fuckin’ honest, I think it’s a motherload of fuckin’ bullshit.”

Cas shoves the remains of his banana-oatmeal bread into his mouth. Sam watches, rapt, and sees flowers blooming from that wild hair as in a crown. Dean snores, loudly, in Cas’ armpit.

“Maybe that would make your life easier, Sam.”

“Whu?”

“To get rid of the need to explain. To define, to pin down. Like, you and Dean, or you and me. I love a lot of people. You could call that polyamory, but, eh, I dun, y’know... Always... _words_. You get me?”

Sam nods.

“Good, cause I don’t.” Sigh, then giggle. Cas’ head lolls back into the pillow. He grants Sam a scratch through his hair. Eye-contact again (or is it? Sam can’t fucking tell; all is fluent and one). “You love him, I know. And that’s cool. ‘S good. He’s the same, but different. I can tell. His mouth is bad though, Sammy, uh, with, the way his brain and mouth and heart, it’s just. Dead end, sometimes? You know that feeling? I know it. Y’gotta trust him, let him be, he’s shy, an’. Stupid. Aros are, uh, not stupid, of course, but he has no idea he is one, probably, and, maybe I should talk with him about it sometime soon before he continues to be...stupid. With you. And me: I love you both, kinda.” Squinting eyes, frown; stage-whisper and a pointed finger at the snoring third member of this mess. “You a little more. He can be such a _meanie_.”

“Nononono,” Sam slurs, urgent now, grinning, grabbing for Cas’ accusing hand. “Him too. Both. He’s cute. You just gotta know him better. Pure angel, s’mtimes puppy, so soft. Promise.”

“Shhh, he can _hear_ you!”

Dean grunts in his miles-deep sleep, and Sam’s laughter doesn’t waver until he has absolutely no breath left. Cas sounds like he’s dying and he begs for Sam to stop through his own shrieks for air, but Sam can’t, and he has a feeling he’ll be okay.


End file.
